Every morning at 7:43am when the number six bus arrives at the intersection of Main Street and Fringe Ave, he’s there. He stands in the same spot in between the garbage can and the bench, wearing a black suit and a red tie, leather briefcase in hand. Sometimes he wears a blue tie, but he is there every goddamn morning. The reason I know this is because I am there too, waiting for the bus to take me to my studio on the other side of town. I never see the same people on the number six bus, but I would bet my left pinky toe that the guy with the leather briefcase is always there. It’s become almost like a ritual for me; when I turn the corner towards the bus station and I see the young, handsome man still standing by the bench, sipping his coffee, I know I made it on time. If he is already moving away from the garbage can and towards the curb, I better run as fast as I can with all my drawings and canvases pinched underneath my arms unless I want to wait for another hour for the next bus to arrive.
Once we get on the bus, he sits in the seat right behind the driver, and I position myself across the aisle, trying to keep all my stuff out of everyone’s way. I catch myself looking at him from time to time, and I often wonder what such a well-dressed business man is doing taking the filthy bus to work. I mean the Rolex on his left arm looks pretty expensive to me, so why in the world doesn’t he just take the BMW that is probably neatly parked in his garage to work in the morning? It’s way faster to get around by car anyway. At this point I usually get really annoyed because I realize that he is just one of those people who need to constantly remind everyone that they are better than anyone else around them. So I take out my calendar and start counting down the days until my next art show - today there are only six days left until the 23rd.
It’s funny because I have seen this man every morning for over a year and a half now, and we still haven’t exchanged more than a smile. The one time we came close to having a conversation he made the obvious choice to let the moment pass. It was a sunny morning, and I was trying not to drop any of my work as I was getting on the bus, while one of my girlfriends, Allie, was complaining to me on my cell phone about her boyfriend. Just as I got to my seat, I dropped a folder full of flyers about one of my art shows and they spread all the way across the aisle to suit-wearing mystery-man. He picked them up and handed them to me but as I thanked him he looked away and out the window. What a douche bag, I thought, but I let it go.
It’s Saturday the 23rd and I’m so fricking happy I don’t have to put on that ridiculous suit today. I can’t believe I actually agreed to working at my dad’s law firm; I should have known he would trick me into staying there longer than I wanted to. And those stupid presents like the watch he gave me. I mean, not that it isn’t nice or anything, but it just isn’t me. I should have stayed in New York City after college, but I guess the smell of money is sweeter than that of oil and acrylic paint on dirty clothes. It doesn’t seem like I can get out of this any time soon so tonight, I’m going out.
“Oh come on Carter, it’ll be great. This is your chance to get back in touch with what you tell me you used to love so much: art. Checking it out can’t hurt, can it? And I know the artist, she’s really good!”
When your best friend and her boyfriend try to convince you to go to an art show with them, you take a drink.
“Allie, I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t do art anymore. All I came here to do was to have a little bit of fun. So please don’t ruin my night.”
When you realize that your best friend knows better what’s good for you than you do yourself, take a drink.
The day of my art show was the first time I ever took the number six bus on a Saturday, and guess what? He wasn’t there. Not near the garbage can, not near the bench, nowhere. It felt a little weird sitting across the aisle from someone whose face I hadn’t studied every morning for the last couple for months, and I suddenly realized that the man at the bus stop really is the only thing I look forward to after rolling out of bed in the morning. Today, though, I really don’t have time to think further about any of that. I have to focus on my show and hopefully it will be the best one yet.
It’s 7:30pm when the first people arrive, and I greet them by the entrance in a skintight black dress and a nervous smile, while waiters serve champagne. I make small talk, hand out brochures and business cards, and show people around the facility, explaining and describing various pieces of art. This whole time I am looking for familiar faces coming in, someone I recognize, someone that I can cling to for a short while until the awkwardness of the first thirty minutes of this event are over. Before I know it, Allie is waving at me as she is entering, boyfriend in tow. On a second look I notice someone behind them and the smile on my face suddenly grows bigger and bigger.
“Sara,” Allie yells, ”I brought my friend Carter, he’s an artist too.”
There he is, mystery-man, wearing jeans and a dirty t-shirt.
Mystery-Man
Every morning at 7:43am when the number six bus arrives at the intersection of Main Street and Fringe Ave, he’s there. He stands in the same spot in between the garbage can and the bench, wearing a black suit and a red tie, leather briefcase in hand. Sometimes he wears a blue tie, but he is there every goddamn morning. The reason I know this is because I am there too, waiting for the bus to take me to my studio on the other side of town. I never see the same people on the number six bus, but I would bet my left pinky toe that the guy with the leather briefcase is always there. It’s become almost like a ritual for me; when I turn the corner towards the bus station and I see the young, handsome man still standing by the bench, sipping his coffee, I know I made it on time. If he is already moving away from the garbage can and towards the curb, I better run as fast as I can with all my drawings and canvases pinched underneath my arms unless I want to wait for another hour for the next bus to arrive.
Once we get on the bus, he sits in the seat right behind the driver, and I position myself across the aisle, trying to keep all my stuff out of everyone’s way. I catch myself looking at him from time to time, and I often wonder what such a well-dressed business man is doing taking the filthy bus to work. I mean the Rolex on his left arm looks pretty expensive to me, so why in the world doesn’t he just take the BMW that is probably neatly parked in his garage to work in the morning? It’s way faster to get around by car anyway. At this point I usually get really annoyed because I realize that he is just one of those people who need to constantly remind everyone that they are better than anyone else around them. So I take out my calendar and start counting down the days until my next art show - today there are only six days left until the 23rd.
It’s funny because I have seen this man every morning for over a year and a half now, and we still haven’t exchanged more than a smile. The one time we came close to having a conversation he made the obvious choice to let the moment pass. It was a sunny morning, and I was trying not to drop any of my work as I was getting on the bus, while one of my girlfriends, Allie, was complaining to me on my cell phone about her boyfriend. Just as I got to my seat, I dropped a folder full of flyers about one of my art shows and they spread all the way across the aisle to suit-wearing mystery-man. He picked them up and handed them to me but as I thanked him he looked away and out the window. What a douche bag, I thought, but I let it go.
It’s Saturday the 23rd and I’m so fricking happy I don’t have to put on that ridiculous suit today. I can’t believe I actually agreed to working at my dad’s law firm; I should have known he would trick me into staying there longer than I wanted to. And those stupid presents like the watch he gave me. I mean, not that it isn’t nice or anything, but it just isn’t me. I should have stayed in New York City after college, but I guess the smell of money is sweeter than that of oil and acrylic paint on dirty clothes. It doesn’t seem like I can get out of this any time soon so tonight, I’m going out.
“Oh come on Carter, it’ll be great. This is your chance to get back in touch with what you tell me you used to love so much: art. Checking it out can’t hurt, can it? And I know the artist, she’s really good!”
When your best friend and her boyfriend try to convince you to go to an art show with them, you take a drink.
“Allie, I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t do art anymore. All I came here to do was to have a little bit of fun. So please don’t ruin my night.”
When you realize that your best friend knows better what’s good for you than you do yourself, take a drink.
The day of my art show was the first time I ever took the number six bus on a Saturday, and guess what? He wasn’t there. Not near the garbage can, not near the bench, nowhere. It felt a little weird sitting across the aisle from someone whose face I hadn’t studied every morning for the last couple for months, and I suddenly realized that the man at the bus stop really is the only thing I look forward to after rolling out of bed in the morning. Today, though, I really don’t have time to think further about any of that. I have to focus on my show and hopefully it will be the best one yet.
It’s 7:30pm when the first people arrive, and I greet them by the entrance in a skintight black dress and a nervous smile, while waiters serve champagne. I make small talk, hand out brochures and business cards, and show people around the facility, explaining and describing various pieces of art. This whole time I am looking for familiar faces coming in, someone I recognize, someone that I can cling to for a short while until the awkwardness of the first thirty minutes of this event are over. Before I know it, Allie is waving at me as she is entering, boyfriend in tow. On a second look I notice someone behind them and the smile on my face suddenly grows bigger and bigger.
“Sara,” Allie yells, ”I brought my friend Carter, he’s an artist too.”
There he is, mystery-man, wearing jeans and a dirty t-shirt.